


Kiss It Better

by MamaCake



Series: Kiss It Better [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Cute, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Short & Sweet, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaCake/pseuds/MamaCake
Summary: Whose stupid idea was it to bring only one medic anyway?Oh yeah. Nevermind.Drift decides to pay Ratchet a little visit in the medbay and witnesses some of the various ailments he has to deal with.Silly little kind of fluff set before everything goes to scrap on the LL.





	Kiss It Better

Drift couldn't help himself, there was just something that made him gravitate in this direction, and no matter how many times he told himself he was doing it to ensure that there was nothing unwelcome on board, well, _something else unwelcome,_ he knew deep down that it wasn't true. He pushed that thought aside and for the third time on his slow meander, checked his weapons. Still there. Just in case he needed to be a hero, and if he was going to be anyone's knight in shining armour, he knew whose knight he wanted to be.

Mentally he shook himself. No, it was just a patrol, a perimeter check, no need to sweep anyone off their feet, no need to think about anything other than there was no danger. No other danger than the one locked away.

He stopped in front of the door, closed, as usual, as if that ever deterred anyone from entering. Maybe it just gave the mech inside a few more seconds to try and rouse something that could be considered a good bedside manner, but not likely. Drift pulled his shoulders up, checking his weapons one more time, just in case, and knocked. There was no gruff voice on the other side, no curse words flung his way, and there was a sudden panic, what if there was something else to worry about? What if he was in mortal peril? Right now he could be laying on the floor, his vocaliser ripped out and his spark shrinking by the second. Without a second thought for his safety, Drift thrust the door open whilst simultaneously drawing one of his swords, preparing himself for the worst.

The sight before him made his vocaliser stall, but for an entirely different reason to the one he was anticipating. He squashed the feeling that came bubbling to the surface, setting his features into something more neutral, and sheathed his weapon, creeping forwards.

Ratchet was sat in a chair by his desk, strewn with various datapads and empty energon cubes, this small corner of chaos the only part of the medbay that was untidy. The rest of the space was tidied and organised to perfection, and Drift had to laugh a little to himself when he remembered how when Swerve had offerrd to help he'd managed to spill a whole drawer of tools across the floor.

The medic was slumped, helm tilted to one side and arms loosely crossed over his chest, with his legs stretched out in front of him, face devoid of any kind of emotion. Drift's optics lingered a little bit longer than he intended and he turned quickly, reprimanding himself internally for letting the thoughts return.

Just as he was about to sneak away, like he'd never been there, he bumped into the desk just enough for the empty energon cubes to clatter. He froze, the liquid in his lines turning to ice as he thought about how exactly this was going to look, an armed, ex-Decepticon skulking around. For a moment, he thought he'd maybe gotten away with it, but it was fleeting.

“What are you after, Drift?”

There was accusation in the vocals, only slightly, and if you didn't know him, maybe you wouldn't catch it, but Drift knew, and he understood, even if he didn't like it. With hands up in front of him placatingly, he turned, desperately trying to bury the guilt that was shimmering behind his optics. Ratchet was still sat in his chair, but ready to spring, as much as he could with how stiff and creaky his joints were nowadays, and a pistol aimed steadily at Drift's spark. His optics were narrowed suspiciously at the empty hands and the guilty expression.

“Nothing, I just…” he smirked, “heard you snoring.”

“Can't anyone leave me in peace?” He muttered in return, “Primus forbid I actually rest.”

"Don’t you have a berth?”

"Why? Want to share yours?”

Drift moved his gaze away, “You can lower that.”

“I know. Whether my frame lets me is a different matter.”

He dropped his arms, but his stiff hands still clung to the weapon and he finally tore his gaze away. Bemusedly, Drift took a few more steps towards where the other mech was fighting to unclasp his hands, and when he finally got one free, he grunted in irritation.

“You never answered, what do you want?”

"Nothing, I swear, I was just walking past and-”

_I had some vision that you needed me to rescue you. Or just needed me._

But he didn't say that, he was saved by a timid knock on the door and Ratchet gave a quick glance upwards as if to ask _why me_? before he nodded once.

“Get that will you? Rather than just standing there.”

Drift ambled to open the door whilst Ratchet continued to pry his digits away from the grip of the gun, muttering curses, about _damned hands_ and _damn intruders_ all the while.

Tailgate shuffled in, cradling one hand in the other and cleared the static in his vocaliser a few times before he could finally talk. Done with being here, wanting to bolt back to his hab suite where he could try and meditate his thoughts away, Drift went to slip out, but then he heard what the patient said. 

"I, um, shut my finger in the door?”

With a grin he stopped. No, he was going to stay, and watch the show, it was going to be good. It was his fault for waking the grumpy mech, but he wasn't going to pass by a chance to hear what he had to say, or rather, watch him roll his optics and huff dramatically.

Ratchet rolled his optics and huffed dramatically, turning his attention to where only his stubborn last finger wouldn't budge and he rustled into a drawer to pull out something to lever it with. He supposed he ought to say something, something kind of polite, or maybe just not as harsh as he wanted to be.

“Is it hanging off?”

“No.”

“Is it broken?”

“No.”

"...is it bleeding?”

“Uh, no?”

Ratchet tried desperately not to huff again, but he couldn't help it. Just sometimes he wondered why he hadn't stayed on Cybertron, but then he would remind himself what a big newspark Prowl could be if he ever had to have even the slightest cut patched and that gave him the strength to carry on. That and a cube or two of engex anyway.

“Tailgate, what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Cyclonus told me you could fix it?”

Ratchet grumbled, “of course he did. Tell Cyclonus that only a kiss will make it better, and I'm sure he can do that for you.”

“Oh! Okay, thanks doc!”

The small bot scurried out and Ratchet closed his optics, before he found the crowbar he was after to finally release his hand. What he hadn't realised was that Drift was still there, until he heard him giggling at the door.

“Wow, so this is what you do all day? No wonder we only have one medic if all you have to do is tend to squished fingers.”

“I'll remind you,” he nodded towards the back of the bay, “of the patients I have over there.”

“Did you kiss _them_ better?”

The digit broke free from the gun with an audible crunch but the pain didn't even register across Ratchet's face, because he was too busy scowling. Holding the crowbar, he brought his gaze back up to Drift, leaning against the door frame with that ridiculous smirk and wiggled it threateningly in his direction.

“I'm still armed, and I'm a damn good shot, you ask your pal, Rodimus.”

Ratchet dropped the tool down with a clatter onto his desk, before disarming his gun and fixing it back in its holster under the chair. Drift lifted an optic ridge and tilted his helm as the medic grabbed a datapad to scroll through the undoubtedly numerous new memos from Ultra Magnus he had.

“Have you got guns stashed all over?”

"Huh? Oh, no, there's a knife over by the decontamination wash rack and another in the spare parts drawers over there. The guns are under the desk, the chair, by the energon store and under both spark rate machines. You never know when someone might leap off the berth and try to kill you, for trying to keep them alive.”

“Does that happen much?”

Ratchet ex-vented, “too much.”

Drift watched him flick through the datapad, probably deleting memos he couldn't be bothered to filter for anything useful, so all of the ones from Ultra Magnus and Rodimus, and wondered if now they were alone, he could finally ask the question he wanted to ask, the one he'd been practicing for a long time in his processor. It was easy, just a few words, but he wasn't sure how they'd be received. He wasn't sure he could bare the rejection.

He was pulled from his thoughts by movement out of the corner of his optics, and his hands automatically went to the hilts of his swords before he realised it wasn't a threat. He was sure Chromedome was raising an optic ridge at him behind his visor.

“I'm sure this is the wrong way round, you're the ex-Decepticon, shouldn't we be the ones twitchy around you?”

Drift gave him a grimace and quickly took his hands away, crossing his arms to stop himself for making the same mistake again. The other mech strode into the medbay, throwing his arms wide at where Ratchet was leaning against his desk, brow furrowed at his datapad.

“Ratchet!”

“Chromedome.”

“My favourite mech!”

“That's scrap if I ever heard it.”

“Uh, second favourite? Third? I dunno, I'm not sure where I rank Ultra Magnus in my favourites list but you're definitely above him.”

“If you're here to ask for a hangover cure, no I still haven't made one and even if I had, I wouldn't give it to you anyway.”

“What?!”

“Because it's self inflicted.”

“You know this would be a real good time for that noise I can't make. For a doctor, you're _seriously_ lacking in empathy.”

“I'll add it to my list of complaints.” Ratchet threw his datapad down behind him, “and it's a long list.”

Knowing he wasn't going to get anywhere, Chromedome skulked back out of the medbay, and as he passed Drift, he was sure he could hear the mech whistling then muttering _no that's not it_. He chuckled and decided he could stay here watching all day. It had comedic value, and it satisfied him that he was fulfilling his imaginary role of protector against a ship that was no more threatening than little ouchies and pounding headaches brought on by too much engex. Well, nearly anyway.

He pushed the thought away again, his little secret, and flicked his optics up to where Ratchet was now leaning over a berth to disinfect it for his inevitable next patient. And he supposed, the view wasn't bad either. He really knew he should stop ogling and go back to doing some real work, before he had his own memo from Ultra Magnus about the Autobot code, he liked to send him a test from time to time, just to make sure he understood and abided it as he should. He rolled his optics at the thought, and knew he'd only brought this distrust about himself, but it still stung him deep down, even Ratchet, who probably thought he was here to steal something he shouldn't or maybe even hurt the medic. Especially Ratchet, his distrust hurt the most.

Deciding, now that he'd finally tortured himself enough, he should leave, he tried to slip out with his gaze still on the medic's back when he bumped straight into someone. Well, less of a someone, more of a crazed maniac.

“Ooh, I didn't know Decepticons felt anything, other than an angsty rage at the Universe. You hoping to play with the good Doctor, Drift?”

“Whirl,” he hissed, “shut up before that stupid glossa of yours gets you hurt.”

“That's more like it, my murdering little buddy.”

The ex-wrecker cackled and ignored the narrowed optics boring into him, pushing past with a clawed appendage and sidling up to Ratchet. Drift couldn't help himself, his hands were tightly gripped around his swords this time, just willing for Whirl to do something he could consider out of line and use the force he wanted to use. Bringing up past and current sparkache had made his emotions wriggle free of the tight grasp he had on them, not only that but seeing someone so close to Ratchet, especially Whirl, had made him tetchy. He was going to watch, carefully, and he'd use all of the things he'd learnt as a Decepticon if he even so much as vented on his crush.

_Crush?!_

The white mech shook his helm slightly, trying to rattle those thoughts back into their cage.

“Hey Doc, I don't suppose you could take a look at something for me could you?”

Ratchet stopped wiping down the berth to ex-vent and rub at the place in his helm where he was just starting to get a niggling ache. Maybe he should have an open and closed sign on the door, and never change it from closed. He wasn't sure what was worst, being elbows deep in someone's chest cavity, with energon being spurted all over his face or these idiots with their whimpers over nothing but scratches and dents. In fact, the next one to walk in with anything less than a limb hanging off was going to get a dent straight to the helm.

“What Whirl? And for the last time, I am not a _love_ doctor, so I am not qualified to give you advice on your interfacing life.”

Whirl couldn't help but laugh, as he glanced behind him back at where Drift was looking as though someone had told him meditation was for losers with imaginary friends, and he made a note to use that one in future. He hopped up onto the berth, and Ratchet snatched the cloth from under him just before he sat on it. Irritatedly, he crossed his arms and tilted his helm, waiting to hear whatever ridiculous thing that was going to come out of his mouth.

“Yeah! Good one! Nah, I just see, I have this weird pain, and it comes and goes y'know, I just thought you could have a look at it, gimme a diagnosis, tell me how long I have to live, all that scrap you do.”

“Okay, fine, where?”

“Oh! It's better if I show you!”

Whirl hadn't even got so far as jumping back off the berth and bending half way over before Drift pounced on him, sending him reeling across the medbay by his shoulder. The troublesome mech didn't care, he skidded to a stop, whooping in glee and then saluted Drift mockingly.

“Oomph, some bodyguard you got there Doc, should stop any fraggers messing with you!”

“Whirl I swear-”

Ratchet lay a hand on Drift's shoulder to stop him going forward, because this time he was sure he'd use his weapons and his skills. With the cloth still in his other hand, he launched it across the room and it hit Whirl right across his optic with a _squelch_. That made him laugh even harder, and he bent over holding his midsection, the cloth sloughing off his face and onto the floor. He staggered out of the room, but not without some parting words from Ratchet.

“The only time I ever want to see your aft, Whirl, is when it's handed to you on a plate.” Ratchet pressed his palm to his chevron, “Primus. If you're leaving, close the door on your way out.”

Carefully, Drift eyed him and nodded, trying to ignore the pressure on his shoulder from the others hand, trying to calm his thrumming spark. He let go, and turned back to the berth he'd been cleaning with a _tsk_ , bending over to examine a scratch he was sure wasn’t there before Whirl leapt up there, and Drift took a few steps away.

It was now or never time for him, the words were stuck in his vocaliser, and he only needed to just say it, just ask. If Rodimus were here, he'd say something irritatingly upbeat like _nothing ventured, nothing gained!_ and shove him towards his spark's desires. Just as he was about to speak, Ratchet beat him to it.

“Bodyguard,” he snorted, “do I look like I need a bodyguard?”

He knew the other mech was still stood there, for some reason unwilling to leave, and he supposed he didn't mind his company, when he wasn't looking condescendingly down on the work he was doing. He didn't need a bodyguard, but company would be nice, even he got lonely sometimes.

“No,” Drift turned to give another fleeting look at the frame bent over the berth, “no you don't.”

“Just ask, whatever it is you wanna ask. I know that's why you've been lingering.”

With a hard ex-vent, Drift crossed his arms, as if it would help protect him for the rejection he was sure that was coming, but words hurt much deeper than physical attacks ever could. He'd been through enough of that, he was hardened to it, but baring his spark and his feelings was new, and raw, and he hesitated.

The medic snapped, “I do have actual work to do.”

“You... Wanna go to movie night?" He cleared the static in his vocaliser, “with me?”

Ratchet went stiff, his back still turned. Drift didn't give him much of a chance to reply before spinning on his heels, and charging for the door. He knew, he just knew it was a stupid idea, and now things were going to be even more strained between them than they had been, and he wished he'd just left it at never knowing if he had even the slightest chance because that would have hurt a lot less than this. Silence. Judgement. He should have known.

His digits reached for the door controls and even though there were words thrown his way, he wasn't listening, he didn't want his audials to register his defeat. If he could just go, if he could just get away, maybe he could pretend it was a joke or-

“Drift, get back here. I said yes. Don't be a jerk.”

“What?”

“Don't make me say it again.”

Drift turned, slowly, feeling like he wouldn't be able to meet the optics he knew pierced him, like he wouldn't be able to bare to see a smirk in the one he wanted to lay his trust in, but he did, and he clutched his hand shut. Ratchet was leaning against the berth, his hands holding onto the edge behind him and he was smiling, or at least, not frowning quite as much. The ship moved underneath Drift from shock, and he felt his knees try to buckle as the weight of emotion nearly pressed him down into the floor. Instead he pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders thrown back and gave him a small nod.

“Okay. Sure. Thanks.” He motioned at the door, “better go do some work.”

“Right.” Ratchet turned back, “you do make a pretty good bodyguard though. Maybe I should hire you.”

Drift had no words left, at least none that wouldn't be embarrassing, so he flew through the door and closed it behind him with a firm clunk, leaning against it to compose himself for a moment. For the rest of his patrol, he found he couldn't stop grinning and thinking to himself, _oh yeah, it's a date_.


End file.
